Three Time's A Charm
by Ankaris123
Summary: Human AU. Their first connection was when they were switched at birth, the second was the internet, the third was love. Eventual AlxMatt.
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Title: Three Time's A Charm

Authoress: Ankaris123

Summary: AU. Their first connection was when they were switched at birth, the second was the internet, the third was love. Eventual AlfredxMatthew.

_A/Ns_: Ajkdflsjfls, so like, I was reading cute fluff stuff and then this thing slapped me in the face and screamed at me to write it. After a persistent three hours, I caved. OTL. I spent a whole goddamn day writing the complete plot line for this fic [four pages] and god, it makes my teeth melt [in a good way]. Anyways, let's begin!

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

—_Paris, France_

It was a late midsummer evening at the hospital and a busy night all around in the ER. A flustered intern lost his footing while answering the frantic call of a doctor, tearing down the thin plastic curtain separating two women in labour.

"D-desolé!" he yelped, scrambling to fix the partition.

"N-never mind that, boy!" one of the women rasped in a distinct London accent. Her chest heaved with each syllable, her perspiring face showing obvious discomfort. "Just go! GO! Allez, whatever! Move!"

The young man gave her a brief look of incomprehension before dropping the crumpled curtain and rushing off. Instructions shot across the spacious room as heavily injured patients were wheeled in one after another. Breathing heavily, the woman attempted to make herself comfortable as the pandemonium escalated around her. She turned her head to the side, her flustered gaze falling upon the woman next to her. Sensing the pair of eyes on her, the blonde female turned, their eyes meeting.

A silent, instantaneous message passed through them and they reached out, grasping each other's shaking hand for comfort.

"Lovely…lovely day to give birth, innit? I'm vacationing with my husband, you know. Late honeymoon, very, very late," she broke off to gasp as a particularly strong contraction stole her breath. "Bloody stupid thing to happen, he isn't even due for another month! Hold on-"

Her clammy grasp on the other woman's hand tightened to excruciating proportions but the painfully-gripped hand held on, squeezing back lightly.

"Thanks, what's your name, love? I'm Emma."

She received a blank expression in return though one laced with desperately suppressed pain.

"Ah, right, French." Try as she may, all the French phrases she memorized for the trip had completely slipped her mind. Going back to the basics, she settled for simple gestural communication.

"Emma," she pointed at herself with her free hand and then at the unknown French woman. "You?"

"Elodie," the woman whispered barely audible above the noise. In truth, Elodie did know English but couldn't answer from gritting her teeth against the pangs of childbirth.

"That's a lovely name. An E name, I like the sound of that. This…this here," Emma rubbed her swelling belly affectionately. "He's Alfred. Oh!" she winced. "He's got a nasty kick, he does. Maybe he'll…be a football player when he grows up, his father would like that."

Elodie nodded her fair head feebly, casting her dark violet eyes at her own tummy. She muttered something in French and then smiled sheepishly, repeating one word.

"Matthieu."

"Little Matt-…Matt…Matthew? I'm sure he'll be a healthy child."

Their exchange was cut short as a single nurse looking exceptionally harassed appeared out of the increasing chaos ready to attend to them.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"He's beautiful, Elodie," Francis said, cradling the newborn reverently as he sat by his exhausted wife's bed. "Look, he's got my eyes, such a lovely blue."

They had been moved to a private room mere minutes ago after the child had been delivered. In a heartbeat, he had rushed to his beloved's side, overjoyed from the news.

Physically drained, Elodie's slight movements could not be distinguished in the dim light as shaking her head in negative. Her hitching breath was still laboured and her skin though normally pale was ghostly white and glistening.

"There was a terrible auto accident on the highway. Over five collisions I heard, that was why the people in the emergency room were so held up, but the worst is over. Soon we'll return home with our little Matthieu. We'll have to pick out a new colour for the wallpaper in the baby's room, I don't think the purple is really suited for-"

He was cut off in his babbling by a small slender hand on his elbow. Immediately, he shifted his chair over to his wife, leaning close in concern.

"What's wrong, my angel? Do you need something? Shall I call for the doctor?"

This time she managed to shake her head fully, her perfectly shaped nails digging into his skin.

"N-no, he's not…"

"He? Do you mean Matthieu?"

She nodded sharply. Her pale lips moved but no words came out. Francis leaned in even closer until they were centimetres apart.

"H-he's not…he's…Alfred." Releasing her vice-grip, a shuddering breath shook through her fragile frame as she collapsed limp on the white bed sheets.

"Alfred? But, my dear, I thought we agreed to name him Matthieu, you were quite firm about it if I remember correctly-, Dear? Are you-, Elodie?"

As the Frenchman hollered for a doctor, a nurse, anyone, a similar scene occurred just a room over to another father carrying his own blond baby boy.

When their anguished calls and distressed button-pushing was answered, they were beyond help.

Midnight of June 2nd, two children were born and two mothers joined the list of deceased.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

—_Paris, France – Sixteen Years Later_

"Pops, I'm home!" There was a jingle of keys being pocketed followed by the front door slamming closed with a well-placed kick.

"En français, Alfred!" Francis chided before regretting his words. He cringed as his son deliberately mutilated his mother tongue, laying on the American accent thickly with each exaggerated syllable.

"Alright, stop, stop!"

Alfred grinned cheekily before heading for the cabinets for a light snack, shrugging his jacket off on the way and throwing it onto a wooden kitchen stool. His father followed him in with a sigh and leaned against a counter with his arms crossed, bemused.

"Really, mon fils, will you stop being stubborn and speak properly? Might I remind you that you are in Paris and not in America anymore? You can't speak just English forever."

"What's stopping me?" he said between swallows, digging into his bag of potato chips with fervour. "I'm enrolled in international school, right? Everyone speaks English there."

"The point of international school is so you won't have to adjust to a foreign learning environment. I don't want your grades slipping," Francis added a quiet 'any further' under his breath, "because of language difficulties. I suspect you want an active social life and I'd say that would be a difficult task in Paris without French."

"That's what Toris is for though. He's my interpreter, you said so yourself."

Toris Lorinaitis was a student at the same international school Alfred was to attend come autumn. The Lithuanian teen was able to gain entrance to the school by scholarships alone but was low on cash to sustain his day-to-day needs. Being an exemplary student and avid learner, he became rather fluent in the language (both the language of teaching and the language of the city) and was recently hired by Francis as a sort of translator until Alfred picked up the local language again. Unfortunately that didn't seem to be happening any time soon.

"Toris is hired on a temporary basis. And I heard from him that you've been neglecting his lessons."

"But they are _so_ boring, pops. Besides, I know all that conjugation stuff already, I'm not stupid, you know."

"I know, son, I know. But I'd appreciate it if you tried a little harder, if not for me, for Toris. The boy puts a lot of effort in his work. S'il te plaît?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. I'm going up to my room. Call me when dinner's right, 'kay?" Alfred said, waving it off nonchalantly. Swiping a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread off the counter, he stomped up the stairs without looking back.

Francis sighed deeply wondering where he had gone wrong. Alfred had been a good boy in his childhood, fluent in French and infinitely curious. Perhaps it started going wrong when he agreed to transfer to the United States for the opening of his employer's branch restaurant where he spent two years training the staff and establishing a good name for the company (he did receive a handsome pay cheque for it). Indeed he had been shocked when he was approached by the sports coach of a renowned private school about Alfred's talent in football. It was not even football (the European kind) but American football. Yet he just couldn't say no to the wide eyes and the wobbly lips that begged him to let him attend.

Now five years later, Francis decided it was about time to recall his son from overseas and hopefully remind his son of his Parisian roots before Alfred defected completely. It was regrettable that Alfred had no intention of doing so and adamantly stuck to conversing solely in English even though Francis suspected that Alfred had no problems understanding spoken French at all and could easily pick up the verbal part given enough time and exposure.

He sighed again, running a hand through his wavy blond hair. Just where did he get his stubbornness from? Definitely not from his mother, Elodie had been a sweet, gentle soul always accepting and adapting, never asking for much. Everything she did from the shy secret smiles to the consoling brush of her graceful fingers on his cheek made him fall deeper and deeper in love with her. No, definitely not from Elodie.

A loud crash followed by the sound of muffled gunfire jolted him out of his thoughts. He almost raced up the stairs in fear for his son's life until he recognized the noise to be movie sound effects turned up to unbearable decibels. The racket it made was disgraceful and he was certain the neighbours would hear.

Sometimes Francis wondered if Alfred was a real Bonnefoy. He sure did not act it.

"Pops," the Frenchman muttered, heading for the living room and his discarded newspaper. "He called me _pops_."

How he longed for the day when his son would address him properly as papa.

Upstairs in his room, Alfred lowered the volume until it was no more than a scratchy disturbance with the occasional coherent screech of tires. It only took a couple minutes for him to get tired of the movie. Flopping onto the large bed, he stared up at the blank white plaster above feeling unbelievably bored.

He missed the States so much it almost hurt. Right about now, he could be out with the guys, maybe playing some touch football (which never stayed as touch football for long) at the park, or crashing some beach party they happened upon. Whatever they'd do it was certainly better than this mundane nothing. He knew next to no one (he liked Toris, honest, but he didn't really count) and he didn't know where he could go to find something fun to do.

It was the pits, simple as that.

Groaning in frustration, Alfred sat up and scooted towards the laptop computer on his desk. The internet was always an interesting place. No one he knew was online at the moment (damn, time zones) so he settled for aimless surfing.

After getting tired of various flash game sites, he scrolled through his e-mails, murmuring 'junk mail' at each message as he checked them off for deletion. Halfway down the list, he paused, the cursor hovering over the subject line.

"Pen pals, huh?" he said, opening it after deleting the others. It took barely five seconds to skim the contents, less than one to open and load the webpage, and several minutes to create an account.

As he inputted personal information to the user homepage, he wondered if it was a bit boring, using his given name as the username. Too late now, he mused, scrolling to the hobbies section. American football was added without a second thought to the text box. Actually, Alfred was pretty good at most sports at his old boarding school so he added 'sports' right after before hitting the backspace. He should be more specific to be interesting.

Humming and distantly wondering what sort of people would 'chat' with him, he began appending the names of all and every sport he'd ever played and to some extent enjoyed starting with ice hockey.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

—_London, England_

"Is that you, dad?" Matthew called out as the door slammed shut. Wiping down his hands, he peeked into the hallway to catch his father stalking down its length in a dark temper.

"Did things go wrong at the office?" he asked, almost jumping when his father's gaze met his. There was a raging fire in his green eyes that wanted something dead. Swallowing hard, Matthew strode forward and took the long rain-drenched coat from Arthur's chilled but relenting fingers.

"Rejected my latest draft, they did. Sodding idiots, the lot of them! They wouldn't know good writing even if it bit them on the-," he sniffed the air curiously. "What's that I smell?"

"Spaghetti Bolognese. I've made some for dinner."

"Ah, right then, thank you," his father gave him a blank look for a moment before adding, "-Matthew."

"I'll bring a plate up to your study later if you want," the meek blond said prompting an approving nod from Arthur who then continued down the hallway eager to work his anger out on the typewriter. When his father disappeared up the stairs, Matthew's shoulder slumped in dejection as he hung up the coat in the closet by the entrance and put the discarded Wellington boats upright. A gentle summer rain fell outside, giving the city a short and sudden respite from the heat.

On the dining table, two places were set, the freshly served spaghetti and sauce sat steaming and waiting. Silently, he took his seat and ate his meal alone, finishing it quickly. By then the other plate had cooled enough that Matthew could wrap it in cling-film and put into the refrigerator. He'll have it tomorrow for breakfast, he decided, reheating the rest of the batch.

A stream of classical music warbled out of the study as Matthew approached the door with a hot serving of spaghetti. He knocked and received no response.

"Dad? I brought your dinner. I'll leave it out here, alright? If you need me, I'll be in my room down the hall."

Still no reply.

Out of habit, he pressed his ear against the cool oak and barely made out the persistent taps of the old typewriter in action. Call him old-fashioned but his father Arthur had a soft spot for the out-dated contraption and refused to use the desktop computer they brought in for him. It was lucky for Matthew since that allowed him to move it to his room. They even had internet access for which Arthur grudgingly paid the bill after a decent amount of pleading from his son.

Padding softly down into his small room of modest decoration, he flicked the machine on, delighting in the gentle whir of start-up. While the computer booted up, Matthew picked up a thin book off the desk, opening it to the bookmarked page and began reading. It was a short children's story written entirely in French and its page were marked with notes on translation and meaning in his handwriting.

The French language fascinated Matthew (a fact he should never let known to his French-hating father) and always had since he was first exposed to it. During the early years of his life when his dad was still a working police officer, Nanny Cecile cared for and raised him. She spoke fluent English and French but was careful to use English when Arthur was in the house. Forced to take a vacation after overworking, his father spent the free time exploring literature particularly writing it. It started out as more of a journal before blossoming into a full-fledged award winning novel. Since then, he retired from policing and took up a job as a columnist for a local newspaper while writing other stories on the side. With him being home most of the time, there was no need for Nanny Cecile and in time they had to part ways.

Every since then, the two of them, father and son, had lived quite separate lives, not much different from before but so much more lonely for Matthew whom his father often forgot or ignored especially when he came home with his temper tested by the editor-in-chief. His father wrote notoriously critical papers, Matthew knew because they had the paper delivered to their house regularly and he always took the time to read through them.

It was a feat for Matthew several months ago when he managed to bring Arthur down to the dining room for dinner and told him he was considering (actually he had already applied) an exchange trip to Canada. There was little protest, just some nodding and hums of understanding. Frankly, Matthew was more worried about his dad being alone with no one to cook him a proper meal than anything else. It appeared he managed fine after Matthew convinced his friend and classmate Feliciano to look in once in a while.

Those four months had been an exciting chapter in his life. He fell in love with Montreal, Quebec and of course, the language. At the school where he was an exchange student, the language of instruction was French. He struggled to keep up but it was an exhilarating experience. It was only a pity that he was too shy and hadn't made any fast friendships with his temporary classmates who insisted on speaking English with him on the basis that he was British and spoke it easier than French.

In Montreal he discovered French, he discovered Ice Hockey (another thing he longed for and loved dearly), and he also discovered a little something else.

"It's finished loading, y'know."

Matthew kept his eyes fixed on the large print, rereading the same line over and over.

"It's no good ignoring me when you know I'm here."

Replacing the bookmark, he inhaled calmly before throwing the book at the figure sitting on his bed. It blinked unimpressed at him as the object fell through without any resistance.

"Throwing things again? Talk about rude. Now if I were you, I'd have thrown something heavier, something that could deal more damage than this, this leaf of a thing."

Sitting on his bed was himself. A perfect clone in every way except that he was wearing (a replica of) Matthew's favourite red hoodie (his father disliked it and preferred him wearing jumpers and button shirts even though he barely noticed him most of the time anyways) and his personality was nothing at all the same. Inner Matthew he called him when Matt actually acknowledged his existence always popping up spontaneously and offering advice and encouragement to his meeker counterpart. He also spoke in a perfect Canadian accent.

"I'm not listening to you. You're just a figment of my imagination," Matthew grumbled, turning to the computer and opening up the internet browser. It had surprised him when Inner Matthew gained a voice, urging him to join the impromptu hockey game on the frozen river, and it surprised him again when he gain a visual presence the first night back home.

"I didn't say I wasn't. But I guess it runs in the family with dad and his imaginary friends and all. You should be more assertive. Speak up, drag him out. Do _something_. Let out some of that pent up aggression, oh wait, that's me. You have a weird way to express yourself, kid, you know that?"

"Be quiet, you."

While he checked up on his bookmarked websites for updates, Inner Matthew continued on his spiel about all the things Matt could have done, should have done, and all the problems about him in the same even-toned voice. It was driving him crazy and he really considered, snapping back, when he scrolled over an ad and remembered something Feliciano told him.

"-and you should have at least try to make a protest that time when-, oh, that thing, you were going to sign up right? Sign up already."

"I'm thinking about it." Feliciano, knowing Matt's interest in learning French, suggested getting an internet pen pal like his older brother had done when he was studying Spanish. He was still hesitant about the whole affair since he wasn't good with talking to strangers and his confidence in his French was abysmal in the long run.

He dragged the cursor over to the sign up link and clicked it.

"Bravo! Now, are you going to get on with it or what?"

"Get out of here!" The figure vanished without a trace. Matthew shook his head free of the lingering irritation and concentrated on the task at hand. Click-clacks of fingers dancing across the keyboard filled the small room until at last all the information was filled in. That had been the easy part, now he had to find someone to talk to.

Matthew considered the possibility of waiting for someone else to take the initiative but rejected the option almost immediately. Chewing his lip nervously, his eyes swept over the search engine's preferences, selecting a similar age group and then after a moment of contemplation, chose France. His heart skipped a beat when the results loaded.

_Ice hockey_…he mused, reading the blurb on the first and newest entry.

Opening all his reference pages and online English-to-French dictionaries in subsequent tabs, Matthew smiled and set to work composing the private message.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_A/Ns_: Yeah, I chose the most generic places ever for them to live in. I know I shouldn't be starting yet another fic but I couldn't help it. I'm sorry. But yeah, French(sorta)!Alfred and British!Matthew. This will be some sort of dorky romance thing. Sorry if the childbirth thing is inaccurate…I've never been at an actual, um, yeah. –cough-. I'm going to try and make locations vague in fear of being completely inaccurate about things but it's AU, so let's not let technicalities get in the way, shall we? Also, think I should keep going?

**Thank you for reading! If you catch any embarrassing typoes and such, don't hesitate to call me out on it. Let me know what you think, thanks!**


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Title: Three Time's A Charm

Authoress: Ankaris123

Summary: AU. Their first connection was when they were switched at birth, the second was the internet, the third was love. Eventual AlfredxMatthew.

_A/Ns_: Aah, I didn't make it in time for Canada Day. Ah, well. Hope everyone had a good Canada day! Here's a little something for you all. P.S. I'm sorry that my faux chat speak is so bad.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Stuffing the last morsel of his peanut butter sandwich into his already full mouth, Alfred grabbed his wireless mouse and clicked the popup alert.

1 new message.

He was surprised how fast he'd received a response.

–_Bonjour! Je m'appele...  
_  
Matthew almost leapt out of his seat when he saw the reply alert. He had spent the last couple minutes refreshing the browser nervously. His imaginary alter ego popped briefly to make inappropriate comments about his eagerness. His heartbeat grew louder from anticipation, he was really doing this. The message loaded, chewing his bottom lip he read...English?

–_Uh, hi i think there's been a misunderstanding. i don't speak french, well not rly neways...  
_  
Alfred barely finished his second sandwich when his inbox received another reply. It was the Matthew guy again who wrote to him in French. Seriously, it didn't say anywhere on his profile page that he knew French. How he would reply, now that piqued the American teen's curiosity. The browser loaded.

–_I apologize. It was my mistake for assuming so based on your city of residence..._

"Argh..." Matthew groaned, forehead on the cold oak of his work table. He felt like such an idiot.

"That's because you _are_ an idiot, idiot. I told you not to be hasty, but since I don't technically exist, it's perfectly fine to ignore my advice, hmm? I mean, it says right there on his profile that-"

"That he speaks English, I know! I should have looked there first, et cetera! Will you shut up already?" He had just made a complete fool of himself to a stranger and he really wasn't in the mood. Maybe he should just give up this penpal business, he definitely doesn't have the guts or the motivation to try again. Something on the monitor flashed, attracting his attention.

A reply.

–_no sweat, man, could happen to neopp[p[[p[[[[srry gt peanut buttr on the keybord backspace s stuck. cant erasedammit ne sugestions?_

Well, that was unexpected.

"Tell him to whack it on the desk."

"I can't tell him to do that!"

"Why not? It's just a matter of finger movements. I'd do it for you if I had tangible fingers."

"I mean it's not good advice, and he might think me crazy if I did..." he added in a subdued voice. "He's still talking to me even after I...you know, I don't want to scare him off."

Most people found conversation with the socially inept blond tiring since Matthew spent most of his time rearranging what he wanted to say in his head first in fear that he would be made fun of should he say something strange. As a result he spoke little and often, to avoid being obtrusive, very quietly. If you looked in a comprehensive dictionary, you'd probably find Matthew Kirkland filed under the entry for Unobtrusive.

"Type _something_. If you dawdle any longer, he might think you've lost interest."

At the same moment as the above exchange was taking place, Alfred was in the middle of a stare-down with the backspace and the surrounding peanut butter-coated keys. He wondered if it was safe to lick it off.

He looked up and clicked open the reply. It was only one sentence long.

–_Whack it on the desk._

"I can't believe I wrote that..."

"Me neither. Good on you."

"Shut up."

"Hey, look. You got a reply." There was a brief scrabbling to sit up properly.

–_didnt work_

"H-he actually listened to me?"

"Congratulations, now stop looking like you'll wet yourself with joy. It's unbecoming."

"I do _not_!

"Tell him it works better if the keyboard is upside down when he does it."

"It does _not_ work better. That's what I did the last time pencil lead fell into mine. I had to get it replaced! Do you know how much a good keyboard costs?"

"Why are you complaining? You got a cheap replacement. Besides, if this Alfred person listens to you, it's his fault for being a gullible dumbass."

"What do you mean me? You mean, you!"

"I am you."

"Not as far as I'm concerned."

"You hurt me, right here. In my heart. Ow."

"You don't have one."

"That remark hurts too."

"Good."

"What's this? Do I detect a hint of vindictive intent? Matthew, my boy, you're learning."

"Isn't that just wonderful."

Inner Matthew smiled humourlessly, propping himself up on the bed.

"On a roll too. Anyways, who says that the guy is actually doing what he says he did. He could be lying. For all you know, he could be some fat middle aged pervert trying to get on your good side. Or he could be who he says he is but is a complete bastard in real life."

"Shut up," he grumbled and began to type.

–_Try turning it upside down._

–_cant. laptop_

–_How did you get peanut butter on it in the first place?  
_  
–_i was eating, duh_

–_Eating? At the keyboard?  
_  
–_im hungry, ppl get hungry, uknow._

–_Duly noted._

–_wutevr nuthin i can do bout it. whoneeds backspce neways ?_

And they continued on this tangent for the rest of the evening, a mundane flow of meaningless conversation. But somehow, just somehow, it lasted until the early hours of the morning and both slept with the faintest of small grins. 

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

–_London, England_

Golden rays of warm early autumn sun crept along the desktop over a stack of exercise books until it reached close-lidded eyes, coaxing them to open urgently. Blinking away the drowsiness, Matthew lifted his head off of his crossed arms to greet the new day. Protesting joints in his body cricked as he stretched, scrubbing his eyes free of sleep. His elbow bumped the mouse, causing the screen to flicker back on.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as his violet eyes skimmed over the remnants of the instant messenger conversation. He swore that he laughed so hard last night his father had woken up from the racket.

–_hey u asleep Matt?_  
–_u tottaly feel asleep on me didnt u_  
–_leving me all aloneeee_  
–_Maaaaaaaatt u wimp! who sleeps 3? how do u expect to b my sidekick if u sleep so early? evryone knoes crime happens ne time specially night, n i cant be a hero if i dunt hav a sidekick it doesnt work lyk that wake upppppppppp_  
–_fine b that way_  
–_i bet ur actuly awake n sittin ther watchin me rant, jerk_  
–_sittin ther reading ur books nd drinkin tea w ur pinky out n other britishy things lyk that yeesh_  
–_Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaatt im booooooooored wake up alrddddddy_  
–_if u dunt wake up im gonna squeeze thru the net n hit u on the head ican do that uknow its one of my superpowers_  
–_or mebbe i wont wake u up n do creepy thngs insted lyk draw on ur face n go thru ur closet_  
–_crap my dad s yelling im gonnasleep_  
–_good night, ttyl_

To tell the truth, Alfred was partly right in a roundabout way. Matt stopped replying so he could focus on his reading and guiltily watched the one-sided conversation unravel just to see what would happen. Somewhere along the way he actually fell asleep at his desk.

The time displayed on the taskbar reminded him grimly that he had school in an hour and that he had woken far too late to make breakfast. Moving the cursor to hover over the close button on the internet browser, he lingered fleetingly on the page, his name in text reflecting off the lens of his round framed glasses.

It was the stupidest little thing, something he noticed just recently in the two months of continual chatting with the other teen. For one reason or another, Alfred always capitalized the M whenever he typed Matthew's name without fail. Yet he wrote everyone else's names, which came up whenever he talked about his time in the States, all in lowercase even his own. It was probably nothing, but it made Matthew feel a little special.

"You're smitten with a guy you met on the internet because he spells your name with proper orthography, no wonder you've never had a girlfriend."

A pair of socks phased through Inner Matthew's torso and bounced off the sheets.

"I-I am _not_ smitten with him as you so eloquently put it. I just feel...' he struggled to find word to describe it, 'appreciated."

"You keep telling yourself that."

"Just leave, I'm going to change now." His statement was met with an incredulous expression that clearly said: You did not just ask me that. All the same, he vanished from view.

The blond was pulling on the tube socks when the fire alarm went off.

"Dad, are you cooking again?" Long fingers worked through the tangles and knots in his wavy hair, his other hand tugging down the sweater vest over his shirt as he rounded the corner and poked his head into the kitchen.

There was a loud sizzle and a cloud of thick steam as the flames were smothered and died. The brunet at the moderately charred stove looked up in a panic, caught between raising his hands in a defensive manner and putting down the metal pot.

"I'm so sorry, Matt! I-I let myself in and you were sleeping and I didn't want to wake you up yet but then I remembered that you always made breakfast so I thought I'd-"

"Hey, calm down, it's alright-"

"I'm sorry! I'm really sorry! I-I was just boiling water! And then there was the fire and-, I'll pay for the damages!"

"Feli! It's okay! Calm down!" he said, raising his voice and taking the pot his Italian friend was waving frantically. "I must have dropped something into the stove, making last night's dinner. Don't worry about it, okay? The stove's been charred dozens of times before, that barely did anything."

"I'm really sorry..." Feliciano murmured sniffling as Matthew opened the windows to let the remaining smoke filter out. Out in the hall, the alarm siren cut off abruptly. "It's just that we haven't done anything all summer, so I thought I'd make you pasta..."

Feeling a twinge of guilt in his chest, Matthew chewed his lip anxiously, searching the cabinet for an old dishrag to mop up the water. Feliciano Vargas, pretty much the only friend he had ever made in real life, had taken up full-time summer work as a barista at the local café in order to earn money for his older brother's college tuition fee (secretly, of course) and had very few days off work. It was with a heavy conscience every time Matthew forgot about or missed a day out they had scheduled partly because he had slept in after talking to Alfred all evening long. His friend probably thought he was avoiding him.

"No...it's my fault, Feli. I'm the one who never keeps our promises," he said, pulling out a plate of sandwiches he prepared yesterday. "Can I make it up to you after school today? We could go out for ice cream, my treat?"

"...I have work after school..."

"Oh."

The unnerving silence was broken when his father ended the kitchen, thick eyebrows furled with morning crankiness.

"Morning," he grumbled, smoothing down his bedhead ineffectually. Taking his usual seat, his blue eyes focused on the round stain on the worn floral tablecloth where his mug of strong tea should be. It wasn't there.

"I'm sorry, dad. I didn't-"

Chair legs scraping across the linoleum, the rumpled man rose and shuffled out, reflexively straightening out his necktie. There was a little commotion in the hallway by the coat closet before the door opened and closed noisily. Silence returned.

"...I guess we should get to school then," Feliciano said gently, prying the sandwich from his friend's yielding fingers and brown bagging it. Matthew nodded and went upstairs to pack his shoulder bag.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

–_Paris, France_

"Alfred! Réveille-toi! Il est déjà dix heures!"

Murmuring incoherent sleep talk, the blond American rolled over, burying his head into the cushy pillow. He was having a nice dream about driving big trucks, which transformed into jet planes, off bridges. A few more persistent calls roused him much to his annoyance.

Several angry stomps later and the door to his bedroom flew open, his father leaning peeved against the door jamb.

"I know you're awake, son."

"Good for you," he retorted, muffled into the cool sheets.

"This is quite enough. School is already in session, I will call in for you to be excused for being late but you must absolutely attend class. What sort of impression do you think you will make if you skip your very first day?"

"A badass one."

The French man clucked his tongue disapprovingly, uncrossing his arms and firmly grasping the corner of the sheets. A savage but swift tug freed it from its protesting occupant.

"I don't want to go!"

"Nonsense! You will go! And the faster you go, the sooner the day will end," Francis sighed, gathering the cloth into a ball, then added coyly, "_Et_ tu veux parler à ton nouvelle amie, non?"

That woke him up.

"H-how did you-?"

"Oh please, mon fils, you think I know nothing? About the late nights in your room, tapping merrily away on your laptop? Papa is not stupid. She must be a charming girl to keep your attention for so long."

Yeesh, his dad is such a pervert.

"Matt's not a girl." That should put a wrench in the gears.

"Oh, am I mistaken?" Francis frowned stroking his neatly trimmed facial hair. "Although I suppose it is not truly a bad outcome to aim for a bigger playing field."

Looking at a loss for words momentarily, Alfred settled with flopping back onto the mattress and turning away.

"Well, it's none of your business. I don't want to go today, I'm not feeling well."

"Alfred."

"Leave me alone."

"If you keep this up, I'll throw you off the balcony."

"Ha! As if you could!"

"Then," knuckles were cracked dramatically, "shall we give it a try? You wouldn't believe how heavy a full soup pot can be."

Unable to help himself, Alfred let out a surprised yelp as he was yanked off the bed by the ankle. His head made a pleasant thump against the thick carpet. Looking back, his father only seemed slightly winded from the effort. The teen decided not to chance it.

"Alright, alright! I'll go, dammit!"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

–_London, England_

With an exasperated sigh, Matthew slumped onto his desk in the back corner. Every year without fail, he would come to class early and claim a seat in the front row. At first it was because of his bad eyesight, after receiving his first pair of glasses, it had become a habit. Besides, he liked being close to the front.

While his classmates mucked about in their usual rambunctious manner, Matthew entertained himself by staring down the crude carvings on the wooden surface. He sighed again, kicking his feet idly. Just where was the teacher?

"Too bad, eh?" said his imaginary carbon copy, sitting in the empty seat to his left.

Matthew replied with an incoherent grumble. As it turned out, Feliciano and he shared barely any of their classes unlike the year before when they had all but one together. He wasn't sure how he was going to survive tenth grade.

"Come on, stiff upper lip, kid. Be a little brave and talk to someone. You already talked to a stranger over the internet, what say we up the level a bit and try it in real life?"

"It's not that easy…"

"You're just saying that. You're scared. But that doesn't matter. Didn't someone say that courage isn't being without fear but overcoming the fear or something? I don't remember really but it sounded really good."

"Can you just leave me alone?"

"Oh…sorry, is this seat taken?" the voice was quiet, gentle, and feminine. Matthew jumped up from his slumped position as a short haired blonde girl stood, indicating the seat in which Inner Matthew was sitting. Her round blue eyes filled with concern when he didn't reply.

"N-no! Please, go ahead!" Oh boy, did he just squeak?

Inner Matthew smiled good-naturedly and vanished after a perky: "Good luck."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

–_Paris, France_

It wasn't opening.

He didn't know why but the door was not opening.

The unyielding double doors shuddered under the force of a well-placed kick. It was a lucky thing no one of an authoritative position was around to see it.

Diligently following his 'papa's request, Alfred had gotten dressed and allowed himself to be driven to the international school. Dumped out on the freshly mown lawn, he had grudgingly decided to be a good kid for the day and actually attend class. And now he was held up by the doors not opening. What the hell.

"What's wrong with these doors?" He gave them another kick fuelled by unadulterated frustration. Still no good. Someone behind him snickered.

"What?" Alfred growled, turning around, fists curled and ready for a good stress reliever. A teen stood there, hair a shocking silver-white colour, stifling his cackles none too successfully.

"The, the doors, they don't open that way. You have to pull."

"Then why is it marked PUSH?" he waved his hand sharply at the sticker on the reinforced glass for emphasis.

"Because I put that there."

Across the street a squirrel jumped into a bush.

"So, what? Do you have something to say?" the white-haired teen said, jamming his hands into the pockets of his fashionably torn jeans. He took several jaunty steps towards the other teen, his stance giving off an arrogant, larger than life vibe.

There was brief non-verbal exchange and a handshake was exchanged. Alfred returned the cocky grin with one of his own.

"I'd say that school might not be so bad after all."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_A/Ns_: Not much story development in this chapter. I'm going to try and speed it up next chapter since all the major characters have been introduced. Hope it was enjoyable all the same. Here are some translations which I may or may not have screwed up:

_Réveille-toi! Il est déjà dix heures!_ – Wake up! It's already 10 o'clock!

Et_ tu veux parler à ton nouvelle amie, non?_ – And, you want to talk to your new friend, no?

Until next time!

**Thank you for reading and reviews are gladly received and appreciated!**


	3. Create a Profile page

Title: Three Time's A Charm

Authoress: Ankaris123

Disclaimer: APHetalia is property of Hidekaz Himaruya. Skype is owned by the folks who created it.

Summary: AU. Their first connection was when they were switched at birth, the second was the internet, the third was love. Eventual AlfredxMatthew.

**Notes**: Cursing courtesy of Gilbert. A time skip has occurred since the last chapter.

_A/Ns_: Hello! It's been a while, hasn't it. I initially aimed for some sort of update by Christmas but…it didn't happen. Hope everyone had a nice Christmas! Here's something to wrap up the end of year.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"I'm sorry I'm late!"

Stumbling into the tiny study area, Matthew paused a moment to catch his breath; his leather book bag clutched tightly against his chest. Seated on the only chair available, Katerina smiled patiently, scooting back to give him space. The study area was originally designed for a solitary student and barely fit all of them inside. Still, tucked away in the corner of the old library (a new modern public library had been constructed nearby attracting the bulk of the student body), it was a quiet forgotten haven amidst the boisterous racket of a typical lunch hour once you got used to the dust.

"It is alright, Matvey. What kept you?"

"Ve~ Matt always helps out the teachers after class, you know." The soft voice floated out from the bottom shelf of the left bookcase that walled in the area. After a few bumps, Feliciano rolled out from underneath dragging his pillowcase-covered bag with him. "But you did take longer this time; I've already finished my siesta."

"Ah, well, I was helping Mr. Ryan find his speech for tomorrow's afternoon assembly. He seemed to have misplaced it, but we found it in the end so that's all that matters," he said, taking out a brown bagged lunch. "I almost stayed when he asked for some help, prepping for the speech."

Their geography instructor was the mumbling academic type.

"Oh? Does Matvey do speeches often?"

"Well, no, not really...but..."

"I would nominate Matt for valedictorian," said Feliciano, removing the lid of his lunch box. The scent of ravioli filled the immediate area.

"The other students would probably vote for someone else, someone more popular for instance, and I'm really not that good with speeches. I suppose I write them alright but…" Once upon a time, Matthew enjoyed presenting his works in front of the class, eagerly volunteering when prompted. As time went on, he noticed how the rest of the class didn't really listen or even seem to notice he was speaking. Sure, they tended to act similarly when other students were called up, but the paranoid blond was half-convinced that there was something inherently wrong with his presentation, perhaps the content wasn't interesting enough or the way he spoke was the problem.

He was never sure and no matter how many times his various instructors reassured him that he did very well he felt discouraged. The longer he spoke, the quieter his voice became. It frightened him how his voice would carry across the room, sounding deafening in the complete silence. That very same fear carried over into his home life and as a result he became naturally soft-spoken.

His explanatory rant died down to a whisper as he busied himself with undoing the cling wrap on his sandwiches.

"You should not be so hard on yourself, Matvey. Truthfully, I find Matvey's writing beautiful," Katerina said, her cheeks pink.

"Thank you…" Feeling down, Matthew felt even worse that his drop in mood was affecting his friends who deserved none of his negativity. Immediately he scrounged his mind for an uplifting thought and found one almost instantly; the smile it brought to his face was difficult to suppress.

They ate in a comfortable silence until it was broken by Katerina when her curiosity overwhelmed her. Fork placed delicately on the lid of her own lunchbox, she turned to the merrily humming blond catching Feliciano's attention as well.

"You're certainly in a good mood all of a sudden, Matvey? Would it be rude of me to ask for what reason?"

A light flush rose to his cheeks as embarrassment replaced his light-hearted joy.

"I-it's not really…" his eyes dropped shyly to his lap where his fingers curled around the half-eaten BLT. "See, I have this net friend who I talk to a lot, just online messaging and stuff like that."

During one of their almost nightly chats having quickly moved on from email to messenger, Alfred had offhandedly suggested that they voice-call each other because it 'kind of sucked to change back to the chat window all the time when he was doing other things'. One way or another, it ended with a promise to talk voice-to-voice. The time and date had already been sorted, though the fanfare with which it was decided made it feel even more important and meaningful than it should normally be.

"Oh~, is this the French buddy you told me about? The one who doesn't speak French?" the Italian interrupted, his fork searching the sauce-covered corners of the plastic container blindly for any remaining pasta.

"Yeah, that's the one. Anyways, he, um, he kind of asked me if…if I wanted to Skype with him." There he said it, swallowing twice. It shouldn't have been this hard to say as it was nothing to be ashamed about. They've been talking for several months now and fast friends.

"Skype?"

"You use it to chat with people with text or verbally, like a telephone! But on the internet. There's even visual if you have a webcam. Fratello uses it too. It's really handy and it doesn't cost anything and it works just about anywhere!"

"It sounds very useful. I would very much like to use it. I have not spoken with my family in Russia for a long time now, but I am not very good with technology."

"I can teach you! It's very easy, fratello showed me how," Feliciano offered, beaming. "When are you going to Skype with him, Matt? I hope he's a nice guy. Do you already know what he looked like?"

"N-no. But we're only going to do the voice call, we're not actually going to see each other's faces so…" Inwardly Matthew berated himself for rushing the first part of his sentence and for the disappointment in his voice during the second half. It was nerve-wracking enough to finally talk directly with Alfred but to talk face to face was too much for him right now. Just the thought filled him with anxiety, fear, and a dash (just a tad) of excitement.

"Oh, that's too bad," Feliciano said, deflating a little. "But you will have fun, si? Remember to speak up and say what you want to," he added, recalling Matt's tendency to clam up when nervous. No matter how hard the younger blond tried to hide it, Feliciano could see the social anxiety in his friend. "Be yourself, I'm sure he'll like you as you are."

"I hope so…"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

—_Paris, France_

"Hey, Gil, hey, Gil, hey, hey-"

"What the hell do you want, Yank?" the East German said, rummaging his jeans for the car keys. On the passenger side, Alfred sprawled against the glossy yellow exterior, pouting pathetically at his friend.

"Drive me home."

"Drive yourself home, loser. I have to return this before West comes home and finds it missing."

"But I don't have a car and I'm too lazy to wait for the transit and it's too far to walk," he whined, until an idea came to mind. "If you don't, I'll phone your uncle right now and tell him you took his baby out for a spin without his permission."

"Resorting to blackmail? You play dirty." However his bluff was weak. West might only be two years older than him but he was technically his uncle (their family hierarchy was somewhat of a mess), owned the apartment they shared, and loved his Beetle to pieces. And let's just say that Gilbert's history with vehicles and the road had been less than impressive no matter how awesome he claims himself to be.

"Are you going to drive me or not?" His question was followed by an overdramatic display of withdrawing his mobile from his jacket's inner pocket.

"Get your ass in here before I leave you behind."

The vehicle rocked gently as the American whooped, pulled open the side door, and hopped in. Engine purring, they pulled out of the student lot and zoomed down the main road at a speed that disregarded the safety of nearby pedestrians and fellow classmates. Served them right for Jay-walking.

"Hey, Gil, hey, hey-"

"What? The awesome me is driving right now, so shut up and let me drive!"

"Can I drive?"

"What? _No_! You think I'm suicidal or something?"

"You haven't even seen me drive! I can't be any worse than you!"

"I'd rather not find out. Besides, you probably can't even read the traffic signs here."

"Come on, just let me have a go, just until I get back to my place, I know the way better anyways."

"Just no, alright? They don't produce this model anymore, if anything happens to it, West will have my head! Fuck-!"

Tires screeching to a halt, the Volkswagen jolted to a complete stop skirting the crosswalk markings. A brunette adorning their international school's rugby jersey threw up her grass-stained arms in disbelief, having narrowly avoided being mowed down. If it weren't for her long hair (which was pulled into a simple ponytail at the nape of her neck) and the decorative flower-shaped hair piece, she could've past for a pretty-faced guy from her mannerism and the exasperated rude gestures she was making at the driver. After she made her point across, she stalked away to the other side of the street.

"Isn't that the chick you're totally hot for?"

"Yeah, I'm going to get her someday. She can't possibly ignore my awesome charms for long."

"Get her is right, you almost ran her over."

"Shut your mouth, Yank," he groaned, making a sharp turn with a little less care than before. "Are you going to be on tonight? I've been rearing for some game time. It's not fun trolling noobs alone, you in?"

"Sorry, potato head, but I've got plans for tonight already, awesome plans." Bored, he fiddled with the heating dials until the temperature rose close to baking. Sure it was January that this was ridiculous.

"Awesome plans that don't involve the awesome me? Now that I can hardly believe. What are you going to do, watch porn? Because that's just juvenile, man. Also, potato head? Is that the best you can do?"

A few shoves to the head later Alfred turned the dials down to a tolerable level.

"Hey, I'm not the one throwing out ethnic slurs like it's second nature. And porn is way more awesome than you any day, but no, I'm Skyping a friend of mine."

"Skyping one of your loser friends takes precedent over an all-night online gaming spree with yours truly? You must really like this guy, like _really_ like."

"If anything, he's a way better friend than the foulmouthed bastard next to me."

"Watch it or I'm pulling over and kicking you out."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

—_London, England_

A frosty breeze kicked up as Matthew turned down his street, nose and cheeks flushed from the frigid weather. Shadows cast down by the various trees planted in the fenced out strips of grassland rustled lazily overhead. Reaching the townhouse in which he lived, his gloved hands unlocked the simple iron gate when a voice startled him from behind.

"Good afternoon, Matthew. Is your father in?"

From the sleek black car parked a couple metres away, a man of Asian descent dressed in a thick knee-length woollen coat stepped out. He was carrying a thick wad of manila envelopes.

"Oh! Mr. Honda, I didn't notice you there, have you been waiting here for a long time?"

"No, not at all. I've just arrived," he replied politely. "Your father did not come to the office today, so I came to pick up his manuscript."

Kiku Honda was a junior editor at the newspaper company for which Matthew's father wrote his periodic columns. Always cynical and acidic with his blunt criticisms, it was a wonder that his father's columns had enough of a following to continue in the paper. Just the mere fact that they sent along the Japanese man to personally collect his manuscripts spoke more than words could about his value. It could partly be because the two were friends of sorts, one of his father's increasingly few friends at that.

"I'm really sorry. When he's into his writing, his concentration is so deep that he hardly responds to anything else but the typewriter," he said, ducking his head, ashamed of his father's discourteous actions. "Please come in. He should be in the study."

As soon as the soft footsteps made their way upstairs, Matthew rushed to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Eyes flickering to the analog clock hanging above the doorway, he scrubbed idly on the black stains on the stovetop while the tea steeped. It was just after five. Only three hours left until he talked with Alfred. A giddy feeling tingled in his stomach as he carried the tray to the study.

He knocked once quietly, bouncing on his heels while thinking about tonight. He wondered what Alfred sounded like. He was always talking about dangerous bold actions he'd undertake with his friends, things that sounded like what any teenaged guy ought to do before they're through with their teen years, so probably very masculine, at least more than Matthew's demure whisper which more than once got him mistaken for the opposite gender. Come to think of it, probably very loud too. Or maybe youthfully boyish? That was fitting as well.

Immersed in his imaginings, the blond teen did not notice that he had stood in front of the old oak door for several minutes until the ache in his arms reminded him of the loaded tea tray. Balancing it gingerly on one hand, he knocked again louder.

The door cracked open, his father's vivid green eyes peered out of the gap, surprised for a moment at his appearance. Classical music warbled out at an ambient level.

"I brought tea for you and Mr. Honda," Matthew said, smiling gently. He lifted the tray a fraction for emphasis, eyes squinting slightly from the sharp contrast between the bright light and the dim hallway.

"Right…thank you, son," he said after short blank stare, "I'll take it from here." And then feeling obliged to interact more in the presence of a guest added, "How is school? Are you keeping up with your grades?"

"Yes, dad. I'm on the honour roll again this year."

"That's very good of you. Well done," he said, taking the tray from him. "Don't stay up too late and remember to finish all your homework."

After the door closed again, Matthew pressed his ear against the smooth worn wood briefly, listening to snippets of conversations too soft to make out. Pulling away with a sigh, he slipped downstairs and then returned to his own room with a steaming mug of chai to fight the cold.

The old-fashioned alarm clock sitting on his desktop displayed the time to be half-past five. With little to do, Matthew changed out of his uniform, doubling up on socks as they kept the thermostat low to save on gas bills whenever possible and as such the house was in a constant state of frigidness.

He busied himself with mundane tasks, rearranging his bookshelf, clipping a few articles from yesterday's paper. Recalling his father's words, he checked his book bag for worksheets until he remembered that they hadn't been assigned any.

"It's not like he'll notice if you do your homework or not. He never checks," Inner Matthew commented curtly from his perch on the sheer window ledge, his vibrant red sweater mismatching against the sober earth-toned wallpaper.

"But he cares about my grades, and if I don't do my work, they will drop."

"Since when has he really cared? You leave your report card on the dining table for a month and he barely glanced at it. He doesn't even know if you're doing well in school or not, just well enough that he hasn't the need to attend parent-teacher conferences on any problems and such. Face it, kid, it doesn't matter to him whether you get a straight As or straight Bs."

"I'm not listening to you," Matthew grumbled, using his usual argument stopper. He knew the ghostly apparition was rolling his eyes at him and ignored it, booting up the PC to check the setting on Skype and rereading online tutorials on how to use it properly for the umpteenth time. The brand-new cheaply bought headset was plugged, unplugged, and moved around the desk several times.

A glance at the clock told him it was a quarter to six. Inner Matthew, having stuck around the entire time, wiggled his fingers at him cheekily. Groaning, he knew this was going to be a long night.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

—_Paris, France_

A hysteric cry cut off as Alfred kicked his bedroom door shut behind him, swallowing the last mouthful of something au vin and blahblah de veau. Call it haute cuisine but the (mostly) American-raised teenager had no connoisseur patience to savour its taste, not when he was running late for his Skype date. He'll apologize to his dad later for shovelling it down and making a mess of the table cloth.

Jiggling his wireless mouse until the screensaver gave way to the desktop, he loaded Skype while drumming his fingers excitedly. His eyes lit up seeing who was online in the Skype side bar, plugging in the jack for his headphones. The main window changed into a chat box after a click; he entered a message at the bottom.

—_hey Matt! sorry im late i was eting dinner, u reddy?_

Fingers moving frantically above the keyboard while he waited, he couldn't stop a grin when the reply came.

—_Hey, Al. I'm good to go and ready as I'll ever be._

Without hesitation he clicked the Call button.

"Hi there!" he chirped loudly as soon as the screen loaded to full functionality. Silence came in response.

"Hello? Anyone there?"

More silence.

"Uh, Matt? Can you hear me? Say something already, this is getting creepy. Did you forget to plug in the headset?"

He was going to type a message instead when he heard a faint noise.

"…_I'm here…_"

"Dude, Matt, you're going to have to speak louder, I can't hear you," Alfred said, maxing out the volume.

"…_Is this better?_" The voice was still quiet, wispy but audible and although he hadn't thought him to be so quiet in real life, it was definitely a voice suited to Matthew. Ah, the limits of text-based conversation.

"You know what, man, I'm going to be honest with you. You sound kind of like a chick. Have you been lying to me about your gender all this time? 'Cause that's not cool, bros don't lie to bros. Or sis, sissus? Yeah, definitely not cool."

Swerving his chair to the side, he propped up his legs on the bedspread and made himself comfortable.

"_I'm not a girl, Al, so you haven't a thing to worry about me lying to you. My voice just happens to sound like this and I don't want to hear any more of this girl accusation. It's annoying, eh?"_

"Alright, alright. God, you sound so British. Like, y'know, British-british, y'know, Queenie and stuff."

"_Actually, I've got a trace of Cockney in it, not everyone speaks the Queen's English around here, you know._"

He said the last part higher pitched in quite a good imitation of the pronunciation he was referring to. Now wasn't that just precious.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

—_London, England_

Unrestrained laughter poured out the headset, its genuine quality filled his chest with happiness. The sheer volume made Matthew a tad cautious, afraid that his French-American friend's voice would carry through the cramped household and reached his father's acute hearing. The notion was absurd but it didn't stop him from casting nervous glances at his bedroom door every few seconds.

After the laughing died down, the only sounds he heard from the other end were mouse clicks. He steeled himself to continue the conversation, forcing himself past his shyness.

"I honestly thought you'd be lying about being American. I thought for sure you'd still sound somewhat French. People don't always notice they have an accent until it's pointed out to them," Matthew commented absentmindedly, picking up several of his older textbooks and unfolding the dog-earred corners.

"_Yeah, well, I'm 100% genuine, bro. My old man's English is pretty good too, if he was real careful about how and what he was saying, you wouldn't know the guy was French. Sometimes I think he deliberately plays up the French tourist façade, if you know what I mean_," came the response with a chuckle. "_Prowling the classy bars at night, getting discounts by leaning over the counter and saying stuff like-_"

Husky French flowed into his unsuspecting ears, Alfred's voice dropping lower to imitate a seductive purr. Immediately, his heart raced, a flush rising to his cheeks. It thudded loudly, overwhelming as he felt his chest squeeze tightly.

…?

Absorbed in his odd reaction, he didn't hear Alfred's next words. It was only when he started calling his name did he snap out of his revelry.

"_-Matt? Are you still there? Earth to Matt! Do you read? Don't tell me I killed you with smexy French accent._"

"N-no, of course not!" he blurted out, trying to control his blush. "And you said you didn't speak French…"

"_I don't! Pops would be the first one to tell you that my accent is horrible. Besides, I'm enough of a sex magnet already, French would just be overkill-_"

A comfortable smile settled on Matthew's face as he listened to Alfred's babbling though he couldn't completely ignore the feeling from early. A hand reached up to rest on the woollen sweater over his heart which had slowed to its regular rhythm.

What was that just now?

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_A/Ns_: Gil and Al make interesting friends, and by interesting I mean loud and troubling for school administrators. I had more to say for I forgot so, uh, now that we've had some progress, next chapter will skip forward again and will feature the parents' points of view.

**It's a little late but joyeux noël and a happy new year! Thank you for reading.**


	4. Find a Friend

Title: Three Time's A Charm

Authoress: Ankaris123

Disclaimer: APHetalia is property of Hidekaz Himaruya.

Summary: AU. Their first connection was when they were switched at birth, the second was the internet, the third was love. Eventual AlfredxMatthew.

**Notes**: Again there has been a time skip between last chapter and this one.

_A/Ns_: Wah, I'm so sorry. I haven't abandoned this fic as you can see! I've been trying to focus on just one on-going fic for a time but that didn't really work… Anyways, I was surprised to find that I already had most of this chapter written (I forgot, haha) so I thought I'd just add in the last scene and upload it.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Door swinging open to an empty house, Alfred pocketed his keys and flicked the light switch on. Two obnoxious blares came from the compact yellow vehicle u-turning out front, the driver flashing his friend a thumbs up before driving off to his date. The moment after he disappeared around the bend, the grin Alfred sported slid off his face as he turned back around and stepped inside.

One look into the contents of refrigerator told the American teen that his father hadn't come home today. If he had, there would be more choices to pick from for his dinner. Bypassing the cling-wrapped celery sticks, he snagged a can of cola, the last one too, from behind a half-empty jar of mayonnaise. Various glass jars and bottles containing ingredients Alfred didn't even know the usage of clinked against each other as the fridge door closed.

It looked like another sandwich dinner for one Alfred Bonnefoy tonight. You would think that having a gourmet chef for a parent meant better meals as well, who would have figured. Wedging a fingernail under the pull ring, he eyed the loaf of pre-sliced bread with misplaced contempt.

Being a chef meant there were times when Francis had to work evening shifts. This was logical; after all, other people have dinner when he had dinner too. He could hardly expect his father to be home every day, preparing him dishes he could barely pronounce and probably didn't appreciate like the select clientele to which the French chef regularly catered.

The carbonated liquid seared a burning trail down his parched throat; he downed most of it in one go.

Sometimes though, his father didn't come home at all. Alfred would then dine on bread and baloney for the evening, wake up the next morning an hour after the alarm had gone off having no one to kick him out of his warm bed, scarf down dry cereal and rush off to classes. At lunch periods, if he was running low on money, Gilbert would begin to really regret being his friend. The American's appetite was not to be taken lightly.

One time Alfred caught his old man coming home in the dead of the night. Having stayed up, enjoying an online first-person shooter with Gil over Steam, he had crept down for a late night snack before bed. At first he thought the racket outside his front door were caused by a robber and had picked up the rolling pin off the drying rack ready to deck the poor bastard for breaking and entering. When he saw and could safely ascertain that it was his very French father at the door, he relaxed and made to greet him.

What he didn't expect was his father lurching pass him in a drunken stupor, and then, when his alcohol-inhibited mind finally registering Alfred's cheery hello, stopped in his tracks and turned slowly around until they were face to face.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my house? Get out before I call the police!" he had shouted in barely coherent French and then shoved him unceremoniously out the front door.

He couldn't remember how long he stood there on the front step, numb from the utter shock at what had occurred.

Even now he couldn't remember exactly what he had thought or felt at the time. He did remember that shortly after he gathered his senses together he went around to the side and scaled the lattice-work under his thankfully open window. He hadn't felt the slightest hint of remorse for the winding moonflowers that were crushed underfoot during his ascent.

He should probably tell his dad about that. If Alfred could climb into the house, so can any common thief. In fact, the whole neighbourhood seemed to have similar decorative structures that while quite lovely to behold once the climbing flowers were in bloom were a serious security risk.

It was amazing what the mind can do, shifting topics like that so smoothly.

Having lost his appetite (a miracle in itself), Alfred guzzled the rest of his soda and set the empty can on the counter where his parental figure would surely find it and berate him for being lazy about clean up.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Shouldn't you be heading home, señor?"

"Now, now, Antonio, is that the way to talk to a customer?" Francis retorted in mock-hurt, his right hand toying with a crystal tumbler. Tonight he just wasn't in the mood for his favoured wine.

The high-class chef was a regular at the small exclusive bar situated on the ground floor of the same skyscraper where the restaurant he worked for was located. It had become something of a habit, nipping down for a pick-me-up or two a few hours before closing after a long night.

"No, but you are also a friend, so I am saying it to you as a friend," the Spanish bartender quipped from behind the marble counter and truth be told, he was genuinely concerned for the mildly intoxicated man in front of him. "Hasn't your boy come home from America? Surely he's expecting you."

"Hmm?" the Frenchman hummed confused, the alcohol tickling his mental functions. "Who do you speak of?"

"Your _hijo_, your son. Hmm, perhaps you've had enough to drink if you're forgetting your own child," Antonio said with a shake of his head and turned to his other customer. "A little help, amigo?"

"I'm off duty already; if señor Bonnefoy wants to drink, that's his decision as a full-grown adult and not my problem," said the gruff olive-skinned man leaning heavily against the counter, a lit cigar held in the corner of his mouth.

"That's the spirit, Carlos," Francis said in agreement, hunched over his drink. "I am responsible…for my own actions."

Carlos said nothing in response, quietly enjoying his smoke. He had to admit it was an odd sight, the lowly restaurant bouncer—his real duty despite the job title of Doorman—and one of its famous chefs together in comfortable camaraderie. His borderline slovenly presence (his bowtie and the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone) already and always did draw disapproving leers from the other patrons in the establishment, but this he had learned to ignore since a long time ago. Life as a bouncer thickened his skin to ill intent.

Exhaling leisurely the Cuban observed his co-worker, if they may be called such, with a cool objectiveness.

Like most information, the rumours about Bonnefoy's son had made their way through the grapevine at work. Despite this being old news it was still a hot topic for discussion, mostly fuelled by the unwillingness of said chef to speak of his child and the lack of change in his behaviour and work schedule. Indeed the man continued to conform to his usual routine of relatively long hours in the kitchen and spending the bulk of his time off work at the bar drinking and chatting up women.

Here Carlos had a little more insight than his fellow colleagues, observing his tentative friend who was fast becoming drunk. These days he drank a little more, spent more nights sitting at the bar until the Spaniard was forced to kick him out at closing. Perhaps it had to do with that other rumour, one everyone already knew to be true and Bonnefoy had neither denied nor accepted.

This mysterious side of Bonnefoy was befuddling and peaked his interest, he wasn't afraid to admit.

"Does he remind you of her?" he tried cautiously perhaps too callously. At first there was no response and then Francis turned his head to face him, tinged a rosy red. Already treading dangerous waters, he refrained from repeating the question and waited for him to answer. Behind the counter, Antonio busied himself with polishing random glasses that from the looks of it probably did not require further wiping.

"Non, he does not," Francis mumbled, sober from a deep sorrow and staring fixated on the melting ice in his own glass. "He's nothing like her. Nothing like her at all."

Draining the rest of the liquid in one shot, he shot the doorman a bleary look, one Carlos could not comprehend.

"Nor is he anything like me."

Shaking off the temptation to lighten the mood with a joking retort (something along the lines of: "And thank goodness for that"), the atmosphere that settled around them heavy, thick and ever present.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

—_London, England_

Where had he put it?

That was the question running through one Arthur Kirkland's mind as he rummaged through his file folders for notes he had hastily scribbled down one early morning. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, he replaced them on their respective shelves and set about pacing around the room in hopes that it would stimulate his memory. The fading colour on the carpet was evidence to just how habitual the action had become for him.

Over by the single window, thick drapery drawn over it, his ancient typewriter sat on his old oak working desk waiting for his return. Normally orderly, the rest of the polished wooden surface was littered with loose leaflets of all sizes, some of thicker stock card and others tissue-thin.

He turned on his heel and paced across to the other side of the small room which while being the most spacious enclosure in the townhouse doubled as his bedroom and study. Bookshelves lined the two of the walls. In addition, the extra table and chairs for when he had company over occupied most of the available space. Catching sight of his large poster bed, he considered for a moment the thought of replacing it with something more practical. The memories associated with it which surfaces now and then only spurred him towards this decision.

Somehow though, the thought had a peculiar edge of déjà vu to it. Perhaps he had considered it before but hadn't gotten the time to throw the damn thing out. This time for sure then, he affirmed mentally.

A low grumble from his abdomen brought his attention to a more pressing issue. His feet automatically brought him to the door while he was still deep in thought about the new development he wanted to incorporate in his current novel-in-progress.

Only when his eyes focused and become aware that he was staring at a bare side table in the dingy hallway did he become taken aback by his actions. He felt a little silly standing there, entirely expectant that a hot meal would be waiting for him there. Surely that was foolish thinking yet it felt, to his subconscious, plausible.

Stretching, Arthur stepped out into the chilly hall and was heading for the stairwell when his ears perceived some sort of incoherent disturbance further up the hall. Steeling himself for the possibility of a break-in, he crept towards the source of what he could now distinguish as talking.

Upon reaching the bedroom door which swung smoothly and soundlessly open under his touch, he peeked inside the unlit room.

Illuminated against the artificial glow of the computer screen, a youth sat at the desk tapping away at the keyboard. It was difficult to see who it was in the poor light. Unwittingly he pushed the door further open, allowing the light from the hallway fall across the unaware figure.

"D-dad?" the youth started, ripping the headset off. Eyes having adjusted marginally to the darkness, a few seconds passed before he registered the face as familiar.

Ah.

"Is everything alright, dad?" Matthew repeated a shade more quiet, pushing back his chair so he could stand up. The computer screen was subsequently turned off.

"No…nothing, my boy," Arthur managed, catching himself. "I was just going down for…something to eat."

At this the teenager glanced at the alarm clock sitting on the end of the desk, panic quickly overcame him.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I-I lost track of time. I hadn't realized it was this late…"

Also taking a gander at the time, Arthur too was surprised that it was so late, far too late for a proper dinner. His stomach protested again to remind him that it cared little for schedules and the human concept of time.

"I'll go heat up the leftovers from yesterday night's dinner, if-,' here Matthew faltered, hands finding the hem of his sweater nervously and deep blue eyes cast to the side, 'if that's alright with you, dad."

"That will be splendid."

Without further ado, the pair descended to the kitchen, Arthur taking his usual place at the dining table and Matthew to the refrigerator and stove. In a matter of minutes, the delicious scent of homemade curry filled the air.

Watching the younger male at work in silence Arthur couldn't help but bring his thoughts to the incident a short while ago. In retrospect it was laughable that he, Matthew's father, could not recognize his own flesh and blood on sight. The more he mulled this over in his mind the stronger the sense of guilt grew in his chest.

The boy had always been unobtrusive by nature, surely the result of Cecile's teachings for he was confident Matthew had not inherited this trait from himself. To even suggest that he got it from his outspoken mother was ridiculous to the extreme. Yet he was almost unnaturally demure and good-natured to boot.

A steaming plate was set before him. Thanking the young man, he accepted the proffered utensil and dug in as politely as he could manage, ravenous.

When was the last time they sat down like this and dined together?

He could not remember off the top of his head. Throughout these years following his retirement from the police force, their interactions had been strained and far in between. In the immediate years following, there was not a single memory that did not involve his typewriter. Almost possessed, the Brit laboured away in front of the contraption, releasing his resentment and stress in the form of literature. The fact they survived with the sole bread winner of the household unemployed had been a miracle. It was truly a stroke of good fortune that his steady and timely stream of letters to the editor culminated in his employment as a columnist.

Silverware clinking against ceramic, Arthur noted his son's slim frame. Matthew had always been on the thin side from what he remembered, most likely due to their frugal living and tight budget. Still it came across as a tad odd to him, having a stockier physique that, while far more slender than his brothers, was naturally filled out and his wife was even more so, big-boned and a broad chest, all heart, of course. Matthew, now, willowy was the best word to describe him. It worried him some, hoping that his growth hadn't been stunted.

Guilt made a stab at his conscience. They were family, father and son at that. It was pathetic that he couldn't name a single familial activity they'd done together. The lad's early childhood had gone by without him around and the opportunities for bonding in his youth (before it would become unbearable to live with each other as he had experienced with his siblings and parents) slipped by, disregarded.

Matthew never approached him about it, not once. Instead they maintained a strange coexistence, each dependent on the other, he on the boy's benevolent care and his son most likely on his provision of room and board as well as funds for his basic needs. How easy it was to view it in this light, a curt unspoken business exchange of goods for services.

Maybe Matthew hated him, his distant unloving parental figure. That seemed logical, he thought bitterly and in an instant, pretty much accepted it as fact in his mind.

They could hardly be called a family after all.

The silence that bore down on them was awkward he realized after a time, though Matthew seemed quite content, even happy, about this arrangement. Feeling compelled by his musings to start conversation and perhaps grasp at the possibility of reconciliation, he inquired offhandedly,

"So who were you talking to?"

Metal ringing resounded in the kitchen, the slim teenager looked up briefly eyes wide then back down to his empty plate.

"N-no one…"

"I see."

And so ended the conversation.

Well, that went well.

Of course, it could be the lad's best friend for all he knew, he faintly recalled a cheerful brunet boy who appeared on occasion in their home. Washing down the meal with a mug of cold water, Arthur, dispirited, did not try again at starting a conversation.

There were some things you couldn't overcome after years of ignoring one another.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

—_Paris, France_

Brushing his desk clean of bread crumbs, Alfred occupied his time with refreshing the internet browsers he had open while he waited for Matthew to return.

At long last, the creak of a floorboard sounded in his headset, signalling his Skype buddy's return.

"—_sorry about leaving so suddenly_," said Matthew in his usual quiet, breathy voice.

"Yeah, well, I could've done without that loud noise when you took off your headset and dropped it on the desk."

"_O-oh, I'm sorry I didn't mean—_"

"Hey, man. It was a joke, calm down," Alfred chuckled, leaning back into his padded computer chair. The swivel joint squeaked from the movement. "Parent trouble?"

"…_yeah…my dad doesn't normally come ou-, um, come into my room. I guess I should have closed my door…"_

"You should lock it next time, man. If you don't want your dad barging in on you." From his lounging position, Alfred could see the digital screen of his radio alarm clock on the side table. The fluorescent red block numbers gave the time: 1:27 AM. It was getting fairly late.

"_My door doesn't have a lock…_"

"What? Seriously? Why not?"

"_Fire hazards I guess, we've never really renovated the place so…_"

"Speaking of locks, just a sec, Matt." The British boy uttered a quick 'okay' before Alfred slipped his wireless headset off and muted his microphone. The silence in his spacious room was deafening, interrupted only by the faint buzz of the PC's internal fan. His eyes swept over to the closed bedroom door.

With a groan, Alfred rose from his seat and dragged his feet to the white wooden door. Any time now, his own father would return, reeking of alcohol like he'd gone swimming at a brewery. From experience, he knew that the Parisian man was no light weight when it came to drinking. However, every person had their limit and whenever Francis came home this late in the evening he was sure to be completely and utterly smashed.

The brass knob locked with a click and, for extra security, he dimmed the lights. No need for his dad to barge in here thinking some no-good robber had broken in; the American-raised teen could do without the unnecessary drama that would no doubt result.

After his little chore was done, Alfred returned to his computer desk feeling a little downhearted from the bitter thoughts. Slipping the headset back on, he smiled, hearing his friend humming idly on the other end.

"Hey, Matt," Alfred chirped, unmuting the mic. "When did you say your birthday was?"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_A/Ns_: I had intended to develop Arthur and Francis's characters more than I did here which was part of the reason why I left this chapter mostly written but unfinished. I may have mentioned it before but one of the primary focuses of this story is the parental relationships between Matt and Al and their dads (the other being the relationship between Matt and Al themselves) so these types of scenes will probably crop up again in the near future. Next chapter will be more light-hearted though for sure with more fluffy business. There's just not enough AlMatt fluff going around.

I'm not sure which reviews I haven't yet replied to but I promise to be more prompt this time around!

**Thank you for reading as always and feel free to drop me a review! I'd love to hear from you!**


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